Page 22 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

She smiled. She nodded. She deflected probing questions with just enough information to satisfy without revealing a damn thing. She even managed to look fascinated by Griffin’s droning explanations on the hall’s enchanted architecture.

“…and the chandelier crystals were harvested during a blood moon, which is why they pulse with that particular crimson undertone when?—”

Over Griffin’s shoulder, I caught sight of Viscountess Morana glaring at Arabella with open hostility. She wore the ornate dagger I’d given her during our brief and apparently misinterpreted winter fling. Nothing says “stabby ex-lover” like a woman who sleeps with sixteen daggers and names them all after previous conquests.

A feigned cough pulled me around to see Sims. He bowed so low his nose nearly grazed the polished floor. “My lord, the tribute from the Syndicate has arrived. Do you wish to inspect it now, or shall I let you continue your brooding?”

I shot him a look meant to blister his tongue. “Proceed.”

He straightened his cuffs and signaled to servants near the main doors. They entered in a stately line, arms laden with chests, covered platters, and an unsettling sense of hush that crept across the hall.

“From the Syndicate of Seven Shadows,” announced a well-dressed herald, “in honor of the union between Lord Blackrose and his bride, we present these tokens of respect and alliance… and definitely not bribes for any future favors.”

I almost smirked. The Syndicate’s packages always reeked of blood money. They unveiled exotic fruits that glowed with captive starlight, wine distilled from forbidden herbs, and beautiful jewelry carved from metals only found in the Obsidian Mountain.

Arabella leaned close, her voice lowered. “The Syndicate. Aren’t they notorious for trafficking forbidden artifacts and occasionally misplacing the souls of their business partners?”

“Yes,” I said, mildly surprised at her knowledge, “alongside a few other charming hobbies. They can be valuable allies, provided you enjoy living with a blade at your throat.”

Her eyes followed the procession. “How generous of them to send such lavish gifts.”

A flicker of humor nearly chased away my sour mood. “They’re not truly gifts but down payments. They’ll want a hefty return from me, with interest.”

“Then why accept them?”

I glanced at her. “Because refusing a Syndicate gift is more dangerous than accepting one.”

The herald came to our table and bowed deeply. He presented a pair of daggers on a velvet cushion, each hilt glittering with crystallized blood. “Forged in the darkness between worlds, bound so that what one feels, the other knows. A fitting symbol for this union—dangerous, alluring, and quite impossible to outrun.”

I accepted the daggers, pulse kicking up as I felt the raw magic thrumming within the steel—and likely more than one embedded curse. “The Syndicate honors us,” I said, dipping my head in a gesture that only barely feigned respect. “Our alliance remains strong… for now.”

He stepped back with a slithering bow. The servants fanned out to deliver the remaining treasures before escaping the hall in practiced unison.

Arabella eyed the weapons. “Nothing quite says ‘till death do us part’ like matching implements of murder.”

“The Syndicate’s definition of romance is unique,” I told her wryly.

“As is yours, Lord Blackrose.”

I might have retorted, but Vex appeared at my side. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “My lord, may I have a word?”

I rose from my seat and gestured to Thorne. “Make certain Lady Blackrose remains unmurdered in my absence.”

“Yes, my lord.” Thorne moved behind Arabella’s chair with the subtle menace of a mountain deciding where to avalanche.

Vex and I retreated to a small antechamber off the main hall. I closed the door behind us, dulling the clash of voices and music. Vex turned to me with a concerned look. Her composure rarely faltered unless the news was either dire or absurd.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“The staff,” she said. “They’re acting… strangely.”

Instinctively, I reached for dominion magic, half-expecting rebellion or demon-summoning. “Strangely how? Are they plotting treason?”

Her lips twitched. “They’re happy. Over the wedding.”

That stopped me cold. “Happy,” I repeated, as though the word belonged to another language. “You mean, in a rebellious sense, or?—”

“In a festive sense,” she clarified. “They’re cooking celebratory meals, placing flowers in corridors you never visit, and the stable hands are allegedly planning a dance performance to honor you and Lady Blackrose.”

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